


Ill Wind

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-18
Updated: 2007-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's how the game is played. But Dean won't follow her rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Wind

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Title is from Billie Holiday. This is for [](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/profile)[**innie_darling**](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/) on her birthday, because she's awesome, and asked me to write this, and ~~I couldn't resist doing her evil bidding~~ I liked the idea too. Beta by [](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/profile)[**musesfool**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/).

The beam of her flashlight catches the boards that cover the window, then swings to the wall, forming a pale circle of light on wallpaper so faded she can't make out the pattern.

One moment, there's only the wall. The next, there's a girl, a figure going from non-existent to faint to definite before her.

Curly dark hair cut in a bob frames the girl's round face. She's swearing a dark, straight-line dress that might have been brown once, with a hem that ends in tassles brushing her knees. A long string of beads hangs low to the middle of her torso, down between small, round breasts. Her face and skin are pale, like bleached bone, one hand reaching out.

Tobey can see the window and wall through the girl, and when she realizes what she's found, a short, sharp laugh of triumphant surprise bursts out of her.

She isn't sure what she'd expected, heading out towards the old Randall place. Doing eighty on the country back roads, top down on the BMW, cold night wind whipping her hair back from her face. But she'd been bored, and hadn't gone poking around there since high school. She'd never found anything unusual.

Not until now, with the spirit of a girl long dead staring at her, with pale skin, black hair, and eyes like a dark pool on a moonless night. Sure, maybe that's what she'd been hoping for. Maybe.

She doesn't shy back as the pale hand reaches out. The girl's lips are moving, and although no sound emerges from her, something about the concentration in her face makes Tobey think the girl is singing.

The fingers sink into Tobey's chest, ice-cold -- no, a deeper cold than ice. It's shocking and _new_ and Tobey shuts her eyes, tasting it, wanting to remember later. Her heart's racing, but what could a ghost possibly do to her? She knows little about them; they're incorporeal, shadows and mist.

She opens her eyes and the girl's face is inches from hers; she can see the tiny mole on her neck, the large, aristocratic nose. The girl's still moving her lips, singing, no breath of air hitting Tobey's face, although she's getting a scent now, moldy and thick, making her think of hard-packed earth and mossy stones.

Tobey's fingers and toes are tingling. Her breath rises in clouds so thick it might be January instead of September.

There's a flash of light, a loud bang, and a strong, burnt scent. Tobey lets out a curse as the spirit dissolves. The cold withdraws from her chest.

Now she'll never know what the girl was singing.

She turns, whipping the beam of the flashlight around.

There's a guy standing in the doorway, just lowering the shotgun from his shoulder as her flashlight beam catches him in the eyes. He averts his head, throwing up his free hand.

"Aim that thing somewhere else, willya?"

Tobey aims the light at his boots instead -- big, thick-treaded affairs with metal buckles and steel-tips. Those aren't for show; the toes are crusted with mud and old stains, the leather scuffed, worn away in patches. They read as a pale, fawn-brown in the flashlight beam. She lifts the beam and finds faded denim, white underlying threads showing at the knee, not quite frayed enough to reveal the skin underneath.

Flicking the flashlight beam back up, she catches him in the face again.

"Hey!" He moves towards her, and she lowers the beam to his stomach. It's part of the game. He doesn't seem to realize what she's doing, catching pieces of him in the light, studying them, putting the puzzle together.

His shirt's gray cotton, and he's wearing it under a green khaki army jacket with a lot of pockets. The shirt snugly fits the flat, hard planes of his body. Some kind of pendant hangs from a cord around his neck, nestling in the middle of his chest, but she can't see what it is. The next bit her flashlight catches is his thighs, the muscles moving under the denim, then his crotch. She flicks the flashlight away before he notices her looking there.

He's picking his way around a broken armchair to get to her, movements hurried but self-assured. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, then adds with deliberate, mocking politeness, like they're at a party, "and you?"

The guy stops and his eyebrows go up. "Swell," he bites out, with a tinge of irritated amusement that feels like bitter chocolate shavings on top of her cappuccino foam.

Tobey catches her lower lip between her teeth, watching him watch her. He frowns; he can't figure her out, and she smiles at his confusion. The flashlight beam shows short-cropped hair that might be blonde or brown, she can't tell without better illumination. She can't see the color of his eyes.

"You...uh...that thing had a grip on you. You sure you're all right?"

She shrugs. "It was cold. I've never seen a ghost before."

She sees him checking her out now, his gaze flickering down to her chest, only for a moment, before his eyes are back up to her face. "Most people would be freaking out right about now."

"I'm not most people." She puts her hand on the barrel of the shotgun, metal hot under her touch, pushes it down out of the way, steps in closer and watches his shoulders tense. He doesn't pull away. The muscles in his jaw work; he's torn, wanting her to stand that close but also distrustful. He smells of dust, sweat, deodorant, a trace of oil. "It's okay, honey, I'm flesh and blood," she says softly, trails her fingers from the shotgun to the sleeve of the jacket, and then downward.

She tests how far she can push, and just brushes his crotch with her fingers, feels the twitch there, the start of a response.

"You should go home." But he doesn't step back, he stands his ground, meeting her challenge. Waiting to see what she'll do now.

Tobey withdraws her hand, purses her lips, considers how to proceed. She could pretend a delayed reaction, act faint, feign hysterics, cry. But somehow that doesn't seem like the way to get to him.

When she doesn't move, neither does he. So, that's how it works: he's not leaving until she does, and he's going to follow her out.

"See you around," she says, reaching out to brush her fingers along the line of his jaw. catching the sandpaper roughness of stubble before he pulls his head back, finally shying.

* * *

It's two o'clock in the afternoon and she's stopped at a red light, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, music up loud while the sun beats down on her head. There's chain-link fence running along the low stone railing of the bridge now, but there didn't used to be. She remembers walking the stones years ago, one foot in front of the other, arms out, water rushing over rocks below, dark sky with night-pale clouds above and her boyfriend yelling at her to stop, to get down.

The light changes and she zooms across the bridge. On the other side, she spots him.

He's got a map spread out on the hood of a big black car, a '67 Chevy from the looks of it. No jacket, and she can see how muscular his arms are as his hands hold the map in place, the pendant swinging out from his chest a little. His head's down and he doesn't look up as she goes by. Tobey slows, studying him. He's looking at the map with attention beyond that of any normal traveler. It's not just a question of getting where he wants to go, it's that he really has to get there because it's the key to something else.

* * *

It doesn't take her long to find it. There are online message boards for this kind of thing; and five minutes of letting the sheriff's deputy think he'll get into her pants gives her the rest of what she needs to know.

Three bodies found mauled in the past five days, in the woods down by the lake. Wild dogs, the police report says, with a note about an ongoing inquiry into whether there are any zoos missing their inhabitants.

It's perfect. Of course, she might be wrong, but that's how you played the game. It isn't that different from bungee-jumping or walking the railroad tracks over the gorge or trying a drug she'd never heard of before.

She waits until long after dark and drives out to the lake. She leaves her car near the picnic benches, walks towards a line of pine trees, insects dancing in and out of the flashlight beam. Feels a pleasant stirring up her spine as a wind kicks up and sends an empty beer can rolling over and over past her, clattering on the cement. Otherwise it's still, except for the flutter of a bird or bat's wings.

The air tastes of tired leaves, the last traces of summer, of danger and freedom. She finds the long, dark car in the far corner of the parking lot, tucked away as if crouched in wait under a twisted, low-hanging tree. Tobey trails her fingers over the front grille as she passes, realizes, suddenly, that she'd felt relieved to see it. It was only the triumph of being right, that she'd unraveled his ways and guessed where he'd be tonight.

A short way into the trees, there's the police tape where one of the bodies had been found. The low heels of her leather boots sink into the damp ground, snag on roots. She's wearing jeans and a v-neck shirt under her fitted, black leather jacket, and no makeup except for her favorite shade of red lipstick.

Maybe she should have invested in a weapon. She used to know a guy who took her to the shooting range. The kick of the gun, the feel of power jumping in her hand had been something, but after a while she'd tired of it, and of the guy.

The woods rustle, off to the left, and she aims her flashlight down, muffling the light under the edge of her jacket, her heart rate increasing as she listens. It's something large, its breaths not human. She licks her lips, practically choking her heart's beating so fast and it's dizzying -- almost too much to bear. Maybe --

The rustling stills, the presence gone and she's alone again, lower lip caught in her teeth as she smiles, lets out a soft sound that isn't a sigh of relief, no. She breathes deep and steady to slow her heart, which really is going too fast.

She wants to whoop out loud. She leans back against a tree trunk, flashlight held down by her thigh, the beam aimed at her foot, her other hand against the rough bark.

A hand closes over her shoulder, turning her and she almost yelps. It's him, shotgun gripped in his other hand. She still can't see the color of his eyes, but they're furious.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snaps in a harsh whisper, breath hot against her cheek.

"Taking a walk," she says calmly, making no effort to detach his hand from her shoulder.

His grip lessens but he doesn't let go; his thumb brushes against the leather, just touching the exposed skin above her collar, as if he's not aware of doing it. He has the fullest mouth she's ever seen on a guy, and if she turns just a little she could kiss him, wonders if he'd stand for it.

But then he lets go. "Bullshit. You shouldn't be out here."

"It's a free country."

"Keep your voice down," he says, in a sharp, staccato whisper. "I'm taking you back to your car. Now."

"Aw." She puts her hand on her hip, pouts. "But I want to stay."

He snorts. "Sweetheart, believe me, you don't want to."

"Why?" She says bluntly, facing him. "What's out there that's so awful?" When he doesn't answer her, she goes on, moving closer to him. "What killed those people? It's here now, isn't it? Come on, tell me." She moves so her breasts brush his arm, sees his adam's apple go up and down as he swallows.

And so she leans farther in, feels that he's gone hard for her, and she's so close that in the flashlight beam she can see he's got freckles, on the back of his hand, on his face, probably other places too. The flashlight beam slants up and highlights the sharp parts of his face, leaving the rest deep in shadow. She still can't see the color of his eyes.

Yeah, she could just push him up against that tree and --

But he's gripping her shoulder again, a pinion this time, no longer sensual or curious. " _No_. You should leave," he says, his voice gone too clear and sharp with authority.

She starts back towards the parking lot. He follows, muttering something about Jesus and pogo sticks and crazy chicks, and she wants to laugh, he sounds so irritable. For the moment, she does what he wants, walks towards the car as if it's her idea, her boots clacking on the concrete.

He stands and watches her as she slides into the driver's seat of her car, curls her fingers around the wheel and looks up at him. She thinks about how the leather would creak beneath them if they got into the back seat, if she climbed into his lap and writhed against him, kissing a line along his jaw, down the warmth of his throat while his hands cupped her ass.

"Don't..." he says. "Why did you..." He reaches up and rubs his hand against the back of his head, groping for words. Then with a grunt-like sigh, he gives up.

She guns the motor to life and he steps back as she pulls out, deliberately squealing the tires.

In the rearview mirror she can see him standing alone in the dark parking lot, his outline etched against the trees, watching her go.

* * *

For two days, she doesn't see him, although she goes on long drives, breaking the speed limit on the back roads, racing past the alternating stretches of cornfields-silos-farmhouses, the busier areas with their strip malls and family-themed restaurants where she has to wait at red lights and can't go fast. She hates all of it. Maybe it's time to leave, if she could figure out where she wants to live, or even if she even wants to stay in the same place. Maybe she could just drive and drive, not stop for too long anywhere.

She gets a voice-mail message from her father, stamped 3:15 am her time, so she was asleep with her phone off when he'd called. He informs her he's reducing her credit limit and she should watch it with the spending sprees. Dad's in Beijing, or is it Berlin, on some business trip or other, hasn't called her for weeks, and her attempts only get his voice-mail.

It's while she's eating breakfast on the patio, watching TV, that she hears the news about another death. A mauling again, same location.

So, he hadn't taken down...whatever it was. Not yet. Tobey finishes off the last few bites of her chocolate-chip muffin and fidgets with the silk belt of her robe, early autumn sun warm against her bare legs.

Instead of waiting for the maid, she takes the breakfast things to the kitchen herself, just for something to do, keeping her body moving, hands busy, while she thinks. She goes out to the garage and sits in her convertible, her back against the passenger-side door, bare feet propped on the rim of the driver's side door, staring at the ugly green tarp covering her father's car.

She should throw some jeans and blouses and underwear in a bag, drive her baby until the tank ran out of gas. Maybe she'd leave her father a note, stuck on the fridge with a magnet, as if he ever went into the kitchen, but the maid would find it and probably tell him. Or she could leave him a voicemail.

Bye, have a nice life.

Tobey curls her knuckles against her lips and smiles at the notion, wriggling her toes.

But why go when there are adventures right at home?

She gets dressed, and waits for nightfall.

* * *

This time she's smarter about it, carrying a smaller flashlight and muffling the beam with the hem of her shirt, giving herself enough light to keep from stumbling, not enough to mark her presence.

She hasn't found his car but that doesn't mean he's not there, moving through the trees. Sooner or later, she'll find him or he'll find her, but he scored too many points off her last time. Tonight, she hopes to do the finding.

Down on a sandy spit along the shoreline, she finds tracks, dog-like and twice as large as her hand. A half dozen yards on, she almost trips over the bones of a medium-sized woodland creature, flesh still clinging to it. She clamps her hand over her mouth to keep from gagging.

The half-moon glimmers on the waters of the lake. Maybe she should forget all this and go skinny dipping, but with the memory of the brush of his thumb against her neck, she keeps on walking, ruining her boots with the mud, undergrowth tugging at the hem of her jeans. It's damned difficult to walk even though the boots have practical, low heels, let alone walk without making a sound, the way he does.

When he steps in front of her, appearing as suddenly as if the shadows made him, she's not overly disappointed she didn't win at being stealthy.

"You're kidding me," he says, his voice rasping as he struggles with his anger, to stay quiet. "You have got to be shitting me." He doesn't touch her. He takes a few angry steps closer, stops, throws the arm not holding the shotgun up in the air. Then his hand drops to his side. "There's something wrong with you," he says with a smart-ass, bitter chuckle.

"Says the guy who skulks around with a shotgun alone at night." She pulls out her flashlight so she can see him better, glimpses of the same bulky jacket and hard torso underneath, different jeans tonight, still faded but the threads not worn through yet. Same boots.

He holds up his hand. "I don't have time for this." He looks over her shoulder, turns his head, and she hears him inhale. Scenting the wind.

The water shines a yard away, alluring, and she wonders what he looks like under all those layers, if he's as bulky as he appears, if his body is scarred from his battles. Not now, not until he's done what he needs to do, but the skinny dipping idea would work nicely later. She wants that full mouth on hers, wonders what he tastes like, wants that mouth on her stomach, teeth and tongue working her nipple, against her clit, making her shudder with pleasure. Wants to see what he looks like when he comes, hear what kind of sounds he'll make, if he shouts, guttural. She rolls the images around in her mind. Both of them standing naked and shivering in the shallows with their clothes in a messy pile on the shore. His hand on her thigh, drawing her leg up, pulling her against him. His mouth against her throat as he thrusts into her, making her cry out.

"Okay, we're going to go over this one more time," he says. "I'll talk real slow, so you don't miss anything. I'm going to walk you to your car." And he does talk slow, biting out each word like they're pieces of broken crackers. "You are going to go home. You're not going to go wandering alone anywhere that might be haunted, or where a barghest has been chewing people up, or anyplace where you hear about anything spooky. Ever. Again."

"Barghest?"

"Never mind. You don't want to know."

"Maybe I do." She slides closer to him, her fingers inches from his arm.

"Uh-uh," he says, taking a step back, and now his voice isn't angry or sarcastic. He sounds weary. "Trust me, you really don't." He rubs a hand over his face and she catches a silver ring flashing on his finger, like the moonlight on the water, before he fixes her with a hard stare. "People like you just make our job harder."

Then his gaze flickers away, and his body tenses. She hears the crashing in the bushes at the same time that he leaps at her, shoves her hard enough to knock her down and turns, shotgun to his shoulder. There's a large, dark mass of something bearing down on him, a flash of light and a bang as he fires.

The massive creature yelps in pain but doesn't stop its charge. Tobey scrambles to her feet, mud clinging to her hands and to her jeans. He fires a second time but not before she hears the tearing of cloth, hears him grunt in pain. The thing -- a barghest, he called it -- whimpers and then thuds heavily to the ground.

"Godamnedsonofamotherfucking--" He stands over the barghest, lowering his gun with the barrel down along his leg, his other arm clutched against his midsection as if he's keeping himself from splitting apart. He's breathing hard.

So is the barghest; she sees its sides heave as it breathes its last. The paws twitch convulsively and the beast goes still.

Tobey catches the hunter in her flashlight beam and sees the redness seeping through his fingers, around his lower arm.

That's not how the game's supposed to work.

He slings the shotgun over his shoulder, relentlessly walking past without even looking at her. But he's still breathing too hard; she sees his steps waver as he heads into the woods.

"Where are you going?" she asks, hurrying after him.

"My car."

"You're injured." She feels stupid, saying it.

"No shit!" He's not stumbling now, walking steadily, but from behind she can see he keeps holding his arm across his stomach.

But she follows him until they emerge from the woods onto the shoulder of the road where the black car is waiting. He puts his shotgun on the roof and leans against the Chevy, shoulders sagging like it's okay to do that now, like he's found safe harbor.

Then he's wrenching the back door open. The car's overhead light goes on and he eases himself onto the back seat bench, reaches down and brings a first-aid kit up from the footwell. He opens it and takes out the peroxide, tears open a packet of gauze. His t-shirt is stained with a thin ribbon of red, ever-widening, gleaming wet.

"Let me help." She steps into the range of the Chevy's light and reaches for the gauze.

He snatches it away, won't look at her. "You've done enough."

Easing her grip on her small flashlight, Tobey notices her fingers are shaking. She stands where she is, watches him work.

He puts peroxide on the wound, hisses, then clenches his jaw tight and begins taping the gauze in place. The white material reddens instantly, and he adds another layer.

"I'm sorry," she says, softly. She is.

Now he does look at her, and in the car's light she can see the color of his eyes, finally: a clear, light green.

"Go," he says.

It's the last time he has to say it.

* * *

It takes her another two days to realize she never found out his name.

* * *

A week later a guy walks into her favorite coffee shop, lean and muscular, tattoos curling intricately down both arms. As he leans over to snag a packet of sugar for his drink, his black t-shirt rides up a little and she sees an old scar just above his narrow hips.

He's just a drifter, his name is Chris, and he's dark-haired and angry. The light's a little dim inside the coffee shop. But when they step outside, into the alley where she pushes him willingly up against the brick wall and kisses him hard, his tongue curling around hers and his hands trailing down her arms, she can see his eyes are green.

~end


End file.
